


Stoned

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (As created by Dangersocks), Kingpin Au, M/M, Master/Servant, Viktor has a foot fetish and we all know it, Which is like mafia AU but with even MORE drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9442898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: If you can learn to seduce me, the ex-honey trap once said,then you can learn to seduce anyone.And why would I need to learn to do that?his new boss had muttered, flushing crimson behind the mussed mess of his bangs.Isn’t that why I have you? To do…that…to those I might have need of?Of course. And if that is what you wish for me to do, Sir, then yes, I will do it,had been his obsequious reply.But as you grow and you mature into your power, Sir, I think you’ll find that creating Ice is not the only thing you’ll want to do on your own.[Kingpin Yuuri/Ex-Honey trap Viktor AU, as proposed by Dangersocks]





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dangersocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/gifts).



**Disclaimer:** Yuri!!! On Nope

 **Author’s Note:** So I wrote a mafia Yuuri thing for Dangersocks, and then Dangersocks wrote a kingpin Yuuri thing for me. That makes it my turn to write something for Dangersocks. This is how friendship works. 

**Warnings:** Based on Dangersocks’ fic, “Yuri on Ice” (and “Viktor on Yuuri”) where Yuuri makes sweet, sweet drugs and Viktor is an ex!slut-for-secrets. You should really read her story about it; she phrases this concept much more prettily than I. Anyway. The title is a terrible pun because Dangersocks likes those. Yuuri is a dominant little shit because _I_ like _that_. Viktor has a foot fetish and you cannot convince me otherwise. Edited once; no beta. I’m more sorry about that than I am the story’s content.

  
**XXX**

**Stoned**

**XXX**  


There are no little jobs for Viktor Nikiforov. Not anymore. He is established now; he is accepted now. He is trusted now—or as close to trusted as anyone can be in this life—and in light of this and other changes, he had been given new assignments. Rather, he had been given a new _assignment._

No, there are no more little jobs for Viktor. 

“Only one _big_ job,” he coos, amused, his lashes thick and low and whispering where they flutter against smartly tailored slacks. His voice is so candy-sweet that his cheek might just stick to Yuuri’s thigh, the sugared words melting to leave burns along his inseam. There is hunger, there is temptation. There is a bite to the Russian’s kisses, his teeth as sharp as his wit when he flatters, “One very, _very_ big job…” 

The honeyed tone is appropriate, considering. It is also irritating, considering. 

“Hmph. I’m just glad it’s ‘big’ enough to shut you up, once in a while,” Yuuri deadpans, again running gloved fingers through slick bangs. His glasses, tossed to the side, glint along with his cufflinks on the edge of the desk. Their lenses wink rosily in the lamplight; Yuuri’s eyes do the same. 

There are, Viktor has learned, rich, burgundy strains in the Katsuki kingpin’s auburn irises, and they are disarmingly, disconcertingly beautiful. Unnatural, almost, in their depth and their hue. Demonic, he has heard others whisper. This is something that Viktor finds private irony in, given all the Japanese legends about _blue_ -eyed monsters. Given all the assumptions that people tend to make about Viktor. Given the _Oiran_ -style kimono that he has dolled himself up in, smooth planes of ice-white skin peeping coquettishly out from beneath the garment’s embroidered folds. Loose and dripping and crimson, the kimono’s layered silks spiral down the planes of his body, pooling in puddles on the floor. A mess of threadwork flowers bloom atop tatami. 

Viktor purrs, nestling, and wears a smile that would make the terrifying _Kuchi-sake Onna_ proud, because a monster he may be, but only by design. 

It _had_ been a costume party, after all. 

Or, more accurately: It had been made to _look_ like a costume party. As covers go, tonight’s had been an easy one. So easy. Easy, like failing to notice the hellfire in Yuuri’s stare when he wears those old blue frames. Easy, like pretending the blood on the hands that shuffle paperwork, that paw at a corded thigh, is not there. Easy, like seeing through his agitated Master: Beyond the facade of confidence and elegant composure that Viktor himself had helped Yuuri construct over these past eight months. 

‘Easy,’ like the Russian knows his lover is silently accusing him of being. Big, small, or somewhere in-between; it’s not like Yuuri has anyone to compare Viktor to. And while he tries not to be bitter, he tries not to be jealous, Yuuri is both of those things and oh-so-many more.

So many, many more. 

A chuckle escapes the confines of Viktor’s smile, the hot huff of humor heating his lover’s thigh. No doubt Yuuri can feel the rumble of that laughter in his bones, in his marrow. In the hinged joints of the knee his willing servant is clinging to. 

“On that note,” said servant husks, painted nails skating figure-eights beneath the hem of Yuuri’s pant-leg, “I can’t help but notice that you haven’t been trying to ‘shut me and my big mouth up,’ as it were. Am I not being _whiny_ enough, Sir? Need I beg _more_ for your attention…?” 

“Please don’t.” 

Yuuri’s right eye twitches. His right foot does, too, if only once. Viktor presses himself closer, hoping to take advantage of friction if he does that again.

“Could it be, then, that my Master doesn’t find my outfit very… _becoming_ …?” 

The pun is intentional. It is also ignored. 

“You look beautiful and you know it. _Everyone_ knows it,” Yuuri intones in answer, far more focused on his work than anyone in their right mind should be when a wonton Viktor is rubbing up against their shin. Pages turn. The kingpin adds, “And I’m sure you gathered me plenty of useful information _because_ of it. Reputation or no, I can’t be the only one you managed to coax secrets from without taking off any of your clothes. Well, any _more_ of your clothes,” he corrects himself, fully aware of the naked skin chafing against his trousers. The _obi_ that kept Viktor’s outfit properly tied had long since been unspooled and abandoned, left to trail from door to desk like a tongue now trails from knee to hip.

Viktor’s smile remains positively filthy. Dirtier even than his body, or Yuuri’s business practices. 

“I live to be useful. To be _used_ by you, Sir. And God, you _do_ use me magnificently,” he declares, giggling. Cuddling. Kissing an ellipses into tautened muscles, Viktor draws out the pause just as long as he wants before breathing, “But baby— If you drop your favorite toy into a cesspool, it is silly to get mad at the _toy_ , don’t you think…?” 

Pale lashes flurry. Yuuri doesn't say anything. But then, the poor boy doesn't need to, because Viktor can see the grit of his jaw beneath a thinned cheek. He can see the calculations that flit behind a narrowed gaze. He can see how all of this will play out, because his Master is as predictable as he is surprising, as cruel as he can be kind, as dominant as he often seems submissive. He is eros and agape and something more dangerous and singular than either of those things, something real and overwhelming, and Viktor keens, pleading, when a single gloved finger slips from his temple to his cheek to his chin. 

_If you can learn to seduce me_ , the ex-honey trap once said, _then you can learn to seduce anyone._

 _And why would I need to learn to do that?_ his new boss had muttered, flushing crimson behind the mussed mess of his bangs. _Isn’t that why I have you? To do…_ that… _to those I might have need of?_

 _Of course. And if that is what you wish for me to do, Sir, then yes, I will do it,_ had been his obsequious reply. _But as you grow and you mature into your power, Sir, I think you’ll find that creating Ice is not the only thing you’ll want to do on your own. And as your_ willing slave, _I want to give you all the tools you’ll need to do whatever—_ who _ever—you desire._

When Yuuri tilts Viktor’s smirk to meet his own, it is, for a moment, like kissing a mirror. 

Then a foot is grinding into Viktor’s chest, and he nearly loses himself right there. 

“ _Oh_ —!”

“You always _do_ want to talk about my _feelings_ , don’t you?” 

A push, emphatic. 

“You always want to label them, to dissect them. Always want to understand them. To _use_ them.”

A spine bends. A kimono parts. 

“So I’m _mad_ , am I?” Yuuri continues, droning, his long arms bound loosely, his leg graceful where it is crooked. “You think I’m angry because… What? You spent the night flirting with every sentient thing in the hot spring? Because you ignored me for the entirety of the party? Like you said, it _was_ on my orders. I’d have to be a fool to hold my own orders against you.” 

The kingpin’s toes form delicate points, their ends honed sharp by years of ballet, of skating. His posture is impeccable as he pushes Viktor slowly, steadily, sensuously back, back, back... 

“But you _are_ a fool, aren’t you, Sir?” Viktor challenges, grinning. Groaning, “A fool for _me_. A fool in _love_.” 

The tatami is plush beneath his sprawl, his head cushioned by yards and yards of scarlet fabric. Looming far above, his lover cocks a single brow. 

“Is that what you think, Viktor?”

And Viktor dares to counter, “No, _Yuuri_. It is what I _know_.” 

“…is that so,” his Master drawls, calm and unimpressed. Considering, head poised on the backs of barely-folded knuckles. “Well, then. In that case, you need reeducation. And _I_ — according to those around me—, need a way to work out the _stress_ that this ordeal has left me with.”

The tip of a pedicure dances down the ridge of peek-a-boo abdominals. Viktor quivers. His hips jerk _up_ , even as he is kept purposefully down, the arc of his back collapsing beneath the delicious pressure of Yuuri’s foot. Breathe leaves him in a dizzying rush; blood and silk and bones and bamboo harmonize in Viktor’s blushing ears. 

When he dares to caress his Master’s ankle, the subservient Russian finds it just as marvelously strong as the rest of his beloved. A kiss falls on the tip of a regal pinkie-toe, reverent. It earns a growl of approval from the one in the throne before him. 

“So, then, _Viktor_ ,” a soft-voice Yuuri coaxes, saccharine like the honey that he has developed an insatiable taste for, “do you know of a way to kill two birds with one stone?”

There are no little jobs for Viktor Nikiforov. Not anymore. He is established now; he is accepted now. He is trusted now—or as close to trusted as anyone can be in this life—and in light of this and other changes, he had been given new assignments. Rather, he has been given a new _assignment._

No, there are no more little jobs for Viktor. 

“As it so happens,” the Russian simpers, delighted, baring his throat and spreading his thighs, “it is my job to know _exactly_ that.”

**XXX**


End file.
